


The Glamour of the Night

by Path



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 09:00:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Path/pseuds/Path
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For all she's dating a vampire and hunted by supernatural creatures, for Hysterical Dame the glamour of the night wears off real fast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Glamour of the Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [winditier](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=winditier).



Dame has learned not to come to the door at night. There are a lot of weird things out there. Terrible things. Or at least, things that seem pretty terrible when they're forcing their way into your house at night. An equally important lesson has been that almost all of them are enormously silly by daylight.

But she can recognize his voice, his endlessly charismatic and compelling voice. By daylight, of course, she smacks a palm to her head when she realizes how shallow and ridiculous some of the things are that that gorgeous voice says to her, but in her defence, it sounded really sexy at the time. Now, his voice is faint through the window- and, as she realizes when she peers out cautiously, faint from more than that.

She rushes to the door, dropping her lipstick in her heart-dropping dash of fear. Three locks take awhile to unbolt. She started with one, but her door has a nasty habit of being broken down. It's not really the door's fault, of course, that's uncharitable, but blaming a zombie for breaking down a door is almost as silly.

Not as silly, of course, as a _zombie full of gummy worms_ , but, well, for all the monsters lurking beneath the facade of the city, it is a remarkable monster indeed that doesn't look like a cartoonish child's Halloween costume by the sane light of day.

At any rate none of them have any idea how to control their tempers and they all seem to show up on her doorstep, and then wreck it.

By the time the bolts are pulled back, he's found his way there, and she opens the door to him leaning into the frame, eyes glittering in the ever-present shadows cloaking his face. His mouth hangs open, fangs faintly visible. His lip is split, and it's not the only trail of glinting blood visible on his face. One arm wraps around his chest to his side, and the way he's leaning implies maybe something is really wrong there.

"Hey," he says, voice faint. "Hell of a night. Mind if I come in?"

It doesn't sound like that when he says it though. It sounds like, wow. She couldn't describe it. But it's way hot, and this whole thing just seems so fantastic and believable right now that she nods wordlessly for a second before breathing an, "oh, yes."

He falls flat into her, then, passing out straight into the open doorway, and she stumbles with the weight of him for a moment before she squares up and hefts him across her back. "God," she mutters, "cut back on the candy corn, willya?" She gets him into the bedroom, more or less across the bed (she just did laundry, too), and turns on the light.

He's not fully unconscious, since he winces in the sudden brightness. "It's not dawn, you moron," she tells him, and then sort of realizes how serious his injuries look, because there's a couple of gouges that catch the side of his face and turn his ear into a glinting golden mess, and gold stains welling through his (ruffled, ostentatious) dress shirt. There are also a handful of black smears that look like oil and stick like sugar, and she decides not even to think about what those belong to, just starts tearing up one of her older sheets for bandages and running for a basin of water to start cleaning off the blood stains. If she doesn't get them out while they're wet, they're going to harden to a cracking point and prove impossible to get out of the sheets.

She's filling the basin at the sink when she hears the growling, and rushes back to the room to find a dark figure standing over her boyfriend making sounds she thinks are snuffly laughs. The figure is short and lithe and mostly covered in fluffy black fur, and two dog-like ears perk up when she enters the room. She can't help it when it turns around. The moment she sees the mouth full of fangs and the dark, gold-soaked claws, or rather, the moment the thing possessing them jumps for her, she lets out a good shriek this thing will have never heard the likes of.

It takes a moment for the echo to die down. The werewolf puts one hand to his head and snarls. "Augh, fuck," it says, voice a choppy growl, "what the fuck, lady, you tryna make me go deaf or what?"

She doesn't wait around for it to make another lunge. She turns and bolts, running through the hall for the door. It's after her immediately, and when she glances back at his pursuit she trips and falls heavily to the hardwood, another scream ripping from her lips. He's almost on her, claws extended, when her scrabbling fingers find her lipstick rolled under the side table and she has it out and revving. Over the hungry noises from the chainsaw, she can hear the (quickly backpedalling) werewolf. "Whoa. Whoa. What the fuck. What is it with you ladies and the fucking overpowered weapons, like holy shit, I didn't sign on for this."

The werewolf cautiously edges his way around her in the narrow hall, and runs off on all fours, long-haired tail between his legs. Asshole werewolf, barging his way into her house and threatening her vampire boyfriend and threatening _her_. Dame does not stand for shenanigans in her house. She swipes once with the- lipstick, now, slams the door aggressively, and throws the bolts home.

By the time she gets back to Sleuth, he is lying terribly still, golden blood still streaked across his features. Her heart catches dangerously, and she runs to his side before he lets out an incomparable snore and shifts a little in what is obviously a nap. She prods his formerly-mangled ear, finding it whole, if crystallizing in quickly-setting candy corn blood. A quick survey reveals other perfectly healed gold patches across his body.

Dame sighs, rolls her eyes, and begins undressing her flamboyantly-dressed vampire boyfriend. If she doesn't get these clothes off him now, there's no way he'll be able to take them off later. Not with the patches of pure sugar sticking to everything.

Besides, she thinks practically, the glamour of the night wearing thin, that's how you get ants.

**Author's Note:**

> I have this thought that vampire Sleuth believes so heavily in genre conventions that all of them act as if they are really actually true for him. As a result he's as susceptible to Twilight vampire lore as he is Bram Stoker's.


End file.
